


Rewind the tape, review the blur

by Aquelon



Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: Chapter 1: canonically Wyatt and Jaylen are at least acquaintances, Chapter 2 is about the grand unslam babyyy, Chapters 2 and 3 may be outdated in context of the Lee Davenport Plot Bomb, Gen, Grand Unslam, I mean Jaylen's death is mentioned but it is not the focus of the story so like yknow, Wyatt Masoning, also the rest of the tacos are there, and Chapter 3 is about the Wyatt Masoning!, and for trippy uncanny stuff happening, and the Peanut, as is Morrow Doyle, but none of those are the focus, if you are tho then go ahead, probably also content warnings for Wyatt Experiences A Lot Of Distress, rated Teen bc i'm not sure if kids would be cool with this level of cosmic horror, so there may be a fic later covering those events with that information in mind, wait i can tag these better
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:07:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28183653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aquelon/pseuds/Aquelon
Summary: A brief history of Wyatt Mason.As mentioned in the tags, this was written over the course of November and therefore does not have the context of how the Wyatt Masoning was supposed to go, so some of the headcanons that get us from point A to point B are subject to change without notice (which will occur in new fics rather than editing this one), but still, don't ya want to see chance encounters, frozen time, Bad Gateways, and the pure feedbacky existential confusion of the Wyatt Masoning?
Relationships: Wyatt Mason & Jaylen Hotdogfingers, Wyatt Mason | NaN & Lee Davenport | Wyatt Dovenpart
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	1. Sometime around Season One

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Unpronounceable by They Might Be Giants. Might add more chapters if I come up with more ideas of things that happened.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone has hosted a party to let the blaseball players get to know each other. Wyatt Mason is not good with parties, but maybe they are good with chance encounters that might come in very handy later.

It’s a few games into the season. Various teams are in various states of freshly formed, and for purposes of the players getting to know each other, someone has hosted a party.  
It is very crowded. Wyatt Mason is trying to stick close to Lee Davenport, who is the only person here they know, but it’s busy and it’s loud and are there three different groups of people blaring music right now?

They take a moment to catch their breath, and suddenly realize that they’ve lost track of Lee.

Oh no.

It’s loud it’s crowded it’s busy it’s loud it’s crowded it’s busy and someone bumps into them and-

Wyatt ducks under someone’s arm and makes their way to the edge of the room as quickly as they can. It’s still too crowded at the edge of the room, so they duck through a door and into the alleyway outside.

It’s much quieter now that there’s a wall between them and the party noise. Wyatt puts a little bit more distance between themself and the door, then sits down on the sidewalk.

“Hey,” someone says, “you okay, kid?”

Wyatt startles and looks around. A woman with her brown hair parted to one side, wearing a Seattle Garages outfit (not a uniform, because this is a party) is standing over to the side, looking at them awkwardly and with some concern.

“Um,” Wyatt says, “I’m fine, it’s just-- just loud in there.”

“Yeah, I get that.” The woman leans back against a wall. “Sorry about that, by the way: my team probably isn’t helping with the noise problem.”

“It’s fine,” Wyatt says, which isn’t entirely accurate but they’re trying to be polite.

There’s a moment of quiet. Wyatt thinks about the games that are still coming up. They quite literally didn’t sign up for this, and they can’t shake the feeling that kickball would have been easier. Like, it’s fine, they’ve been learning the ropes these past couple games, and even if the only person on the team that they really know is Lee, everyone else seems nice enough. Even if the one time they got to check out the announcer booth, it kind of weirdly seemed like the booth’s microphone was welded to the table, that’s probably no big deal.

There are whispers going around of some sort of Forbidden Book, and that actually does have Wyatt a bit concerned because that does sound like a big deal.

Mostly, though, they’re worried that they might be out of their depth. That they might have bitten off more than they can chew. That they might be letting the team down…

“Do you think things are gonna work out okay?” Oh jeez, probably not a good question to ask a stranger completely unprompted. Oh no.

The woman thinks about it for a moment. Oh no oh no what if she’s upset-- “Things haven’t been bad so far,” she says carefully. “In my side job, things were often stressful, and often doing the right thing, or even the best thing, required going toe to toe with people who are probably much more powerful than I am. In that kind of situation, all you can do is persevere and depend on other people to have your back. Blaseball has been much less stressful than dealing with Jamazon, and while I don’t know what happens in the future, I think, it’s a team splort, isn’t it? You can always count on your team to support you.”

“Um… thanks,” Wyatt says sheepishly. “Sorry. I appreciate it.”

“No problem,” the woman says. “I was going to head back inside; should I get one of your teammates to come check on you?”

“Yeah,” Wyatt says, “um, Lee Davenport, LA Tacos outfit, hair that you can’t tell if it’s brown or red? If- if you can find him I’d really appreciate that.”

“Alright.” The woman turns and starts heading back into the party. A sudden burst of nervousness hits Wyatt abruptly. For some reason, they can’t let this person go without knowing at least their name. Maybe it’s the good instinct for fate that is pretty common in the blaseball league. Maybe it’s just so Lee will know why she’s talking to him (that makes more sense).

“A-also, you’re gonna want to let him know who he’s looking for! Um, my name’s Wyatt!”

“Got it.” The woman nods and ducks through the door, back into the party.

A few minutes later, Lee comes outside. They both leave the party area early, head back to Lee’s apartment, and watch a lot of episodes of Naruto.

Wyatt takes the stranger’s advice to heart, and gets to know the team slightly better. They don’t find out who she was until the end of the season, when the sky is darkened with what seems like a constant solar eclipse and a few things about the stranger are all over the news: her face, her name-- Jaylen Hotdogfingers-- and her untimely death.


	2. Season 3, Day 73

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the Grand Unslam.

Season 3, Day 73. The game has gone on for quite some time. The Tacos are, finally, losing. It’s not great that it’s finally happening, but it’s not really a surprise, either.

The bases are loaded. Wyatt Mason is in the outfield, bouncing on their heels, trying to ignore the fact that something feels slightly off right now. They watch closely to see if they can be any help in the field.

Morrow Doyle is at the plate, and Lee Davenport is pitching.

The ball is a fastball-- a very fast ball-- so-fast-you-can-barely-see-it-ball-- it’s tearing fine filaments of something in the air behind it. 

Morrow must be swinging blindly, but swing they do, and--

Everyone on the field watches the ball soar off into oblivion. The birds scatter in all directions to avoid it. It vanishes from sight, and somewhere in the distance there’s what might be a ‘crunch’ sound.

There’s a sound like something catastrophically large creaking ominously in the wind.

Wyatt looks around and realizes that something is just subtly wrong. Well, maybe it’s not exactly subtle: as the Shoe Thieves on the bases make their way back to home plate (no one’s sure if the ball even _exists_ anymore, so it’s definitely a grand slam), the scene is overlaid with what looks like the instant Morrow’s bat hit the ball, seemingly frozen in time as an overlay over the world.

“Does-- does anyone else see that?” Wyatt asks.

Maybe everyone else is just too far away to hear the question and reply, because no one does.

The rest of the inning proceeds almost entirely like there’s nothing weird going on. Something is creaking, Lee’s hair is flickering red and brown and red and brown and redandbrownandred, and Wyatt can’t tell for sure from here, but other than the frozen-in-time afterimage, Morrow might have been nowhere to be found since the moment they touched home plate.

The inning ends, the next inning starts, and Wyatt makes their way to the dugout very slowly. It seems like everyone else is slowing down. They pick up their pace and duck into the dugout in a hurry. Something impossibly large continues to creak and groan under some unknown pressure.

Everything stops.

Everything _stops._

Wyatt looks around in alarm, wondering if they’re the only one not seemingly frozen in time.

Everything is very, very still, even the birds. It’s quiet. The only sound is that ominous creaking from somewhere far overhead.

Wyatt takes a step back. “Um… guys? Anyone?”

It’s too still, too quiet. Wyatt takes a few steps towards the bases again, looking around carefully.

It’s terrifyingly quiet.

“Focus,” Wyatt mutters to themself. “What’s going on? It’d be… it’d be much better if it weren’t… like this, I like the quiet…” They shake their head. “Focus, Wyatt.”

They step back out onto the field, looking around. The only thing of note that isn’t frozen in time is--

“Did the pitch…” Wyatt trails off. Something resembling a portal has formed from one of the filaments of reality Lee’s pitch tore in the air.

It looks like a gateway.

It does not look like a good gateway.

Lee’s on the pitcher’s mound, still, arm mid-pitch, overlaid eerily with the Shoe Thieves pitcher. Two moments, both frozen in time, one on top of the other.

They look… glitchy. 

Wyatt would love to look around and see if there’s the start-of-the-bottom-inning version of him somewhere, but… “Focus,” they repeat. They do not want to look at stuff any more than they have to.

Something unimaginably large is still creaking. Wyatt squints upwards, but it’s hard to tell if there’s anything weird in the sky because the two moments frozen in time have different bird configurations.

Wyatt looks around for any ways to get time unfrozen. Well, there’s that gateway…

It does not look good. But is there another option?

They carefully step more onto the field, as though they’re expecting something awful to happen any second. Well, they are.

Are Morrow’s eyes following them? Is that the only thing moving here?

Focus. Focus focus focus focus. Find a solution. It’s better than this. What if there isn’t a solution-- “Focus,” they mutter aloud again. Focus.

There’s only one way out of this.

Well, they could wait it out, but what if this moment doesn’t stop? What if the game is stuck like this forever?

The gateway looks bad. Staying here looks worse. Something very very large is still making a creaking sound like it’s about to collapse at any moment.

“Okay.” Wyatt bounces nervously on their heels. They brace themself, and before they can rethink it too hard they sprint at the bad gateway and dive through it.

Everything goes white.

Then everything fades to black.

Then-

Time seems to cut forwards in jerky segments that are moving too fast too fast too fast. Someone on the Shoe Thieves scores, Wyatt has no time to tell who--

Someone gets out. Someone gets on base. Someone someone someone--

Wyatt’s standing at home plate, holding the bat, waiting for the pitch, what’s--

Time stops for a very long moment.

Then everything goes black again. This time in a different way, a way that they’ve seen once before but only a very small number of times. They’re floating in whatever void that Peanut that showed up once or twice exists in, and so, as they can see if they squint, is everyone else. The Peanut looms overhead, rotating ominously, and Wyatt can feel its distaste aimed almost directly in their direction as it ‘talks’.

“DID YOU TASTE THE INFINITE?” it says, not just to them but to everyone. Wyatt wants to say that they really wish they hadn’t, but the words just won’t come out.

“YOU ARE INSATIABLE,” it says. “WHERE IS YOUR RESTRAINT?” Wyatt tries to force through the silence that is filling the maybe-not-air, to say, this wasn’t on purpose, how is this us? To say that they’re scared, that…

Everything fades back to black.

… 

Wyatt regains consciousness in the Tacos locker room. They’re flopped over on one of the benches like they passed out there. As they sit up and rub their head, they can see the rest of the Tacos doing the same, apparently also slowly regaining consciousness, with the exception of Lee, who is leaning against one of the lockers with his head in his hands but is very clearly very awake.

Something very weird just happened.

They don’t remember what it was.


	3. Season 3, the Elections

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> we ALLLL know what happens during the Season 3 elections. And if you don't, then I suppose you're about to find out.

Season 3, the day of the Season 3 Elections.

Wyatt has been unusually quiet for the last few weeks, and they’re not the only one. Lee’s barely said a word, avoiding conversations, dodging most questions, and seeming perpetually distressed. He half-seems to want to apologize for something, but since none of his teammates, Wyatt included, have any idea what he might want to apologize for, he has settled for instead becoming overly cautious about something.

Wyatt, meanwhile, is saying less because something is leaving them kind of tired, making them lose focus. It’s a somewhat imperceptible change, but just enough to be strange. This is especially weird and notably not affecting their games because, this being blaseball, they shouldn’t _get_ tired. Still, they’re saving their energy and focusing on…

On what? On not falling apart? That sounds very ominous, but it’s kind of how they feel right now.

They’re pretty sure that’s connected to the weird thing that they don’t quite remember, but since they don’t remember what the weird thing was, that doesn’t really help.

All the while, if you stand outside in Los Angeles and listen just right… 

All the while, something unimaginably large is creaking with strain.

Election results are announced on a stage outside Al Pastor Memorial Stadium, with a large, heavy-- what’s-the-word-- awning overhead in case it rains, and the Tacos are waiting in the front row for the results to be announced. They’re very close to the stage, close enough that hypothetically, Wyatt could reach out and grab the microphone that the announcer is going to use to announce the election results.

Five minutes.

The creaking from somewhere far overhead has been gradually picking up volume and tension over time. It’s still not exactly easy to notice unless you’re listening for it, but it’s definitely more strained than it was before.

Three minutes.

“H-hey,” Wyatt ventures nervously and quietly, “does anyone else hear something creaking?” It’s worth at least asking.

“I was thinking it was just the awning stretching,” Wanda Pothos says. She thinks about it. “Although I don’t think this stage area was designed that badly, so I don’t know.”

Two minutes.

The sound is way too deep to just be some sort of problem with the stage. It’s almost subsonic, to the very limited extent that Wyatt knows what subsonic means, and it sounds like it’s coming from simultaneously far overhead and everywhere at once.

One minute.

It’s… definitely getting worse. Wyatt isn’t the only one looking up towards it nervously; Mcdowell Sasquatch, and several of the other Tacos, are all glancing up every once in a while as whatever unimaginably large thing they’re hearing creaks as though in the wind, and Lee looks positively terrified. Lee has fished a ball out of his pocket or out from under the seat or something and is clenching it in one hand.

Thirty seconds.

Twenty seconds.

Ten seconds.

Something _cracks._

A ripple effect of some sort of distortion races down from the sky to the stage. It doesn’t seem to have any immediate effects, but the stand with the microphone on it starts to tip over.

Wyatt reaches out, mostly to try and put the stand back. Their hand closes around the microphone.

There’s something that feels like a burst of static, a flash of magenta light. For just a split second, Wyatt Knows: their friends are going to be in danger, and this is possibly the only chance they’ll get to help keep them safe.

As they tilt the stand back into place, they lift the Microphone off it.

There are auditoriums in other cities with their own announcer stands. In Hades, in San Francisco, in Charleston… Defying all perception of gravity, the announcer microphones lift off of their stands, matching their counterpart’s movement.

The ripple effect propels itself up the other way, and the awning splits open like it’s retracting into itself to reveal the sky, almost tearing in two (then in three, then in four, then in five…) in a distorted flurry of light and colour.

The election results are already happening, and Wyatt barely has time to realize that before they realize that they’ve already realized that.

What?

Wyatt-- the one who is presently receiving Exploratory Surgeries-- was kind of expecting, or at least hoping, to get the Exploratory Surgeries and was prepared for it. Hey, it’s great that they got that!

Seriously, what?

There’s a lot happening. Not a lot of events, but a lot of stuff, a lot of… 

The bridge (the bridge?) (one of the announcements says that the Grand Unslam weakened the bridge) (Wyatt-- the one who knows what that means best-- is upset by that, and fidgets nervously) is no longer creaking ominously. But it might be completely gone. It’s impossible to tell.

There is a very faint high-pitched whine of feedback in the background.

There’s a long moment of just trying to parse what is happening, and then--

Wyatt-- the one who is looking to the left right now, relative to the stage, which is also the right and also behind them relative to some of the other Wyatts-- notices it first, and there really isn’t anyone else who has to notice it in order for it to be noticed. The umpires must have heard about this, because several of them are approaching. With intent. Pretty clearly ill intent.

The Wyatts scatter, retreating frantically to stay out of the way of the umpires. The next… who knows how many minutes are a chaotic mess of scrambling through hallways and avoiding the umps as much as they can.

Wyatt-- all of them-- winds up in the center of the Al Pastor Memorial Stadium field, back to back to back to back to back. Most of the umps are clearly busy somewhere else and have not found them, but the door to the back rooms swings open and, as the Wyatts back up, one of the umps emerges around… well, the normal umpire location. Although generally the normal umpire location does not involve looming ominously towards the Wyatts, except for when it does. Such as right now.

Okay, they’re panicking.

The umpire doesn’t seem to be focused on the rest of the Wyatts, just Wyatt-- the one who’s still holding the Microphone-- the original? Although… it’s difficult to tell what they’re focusing on, exactly, for sure.

The temperature in the stadium starts rising, slowly, like it’s testing the waters of temperature raising rather than committing fully. It’s still not good it’s still too much.

Wyatt-- the one with the Microphone-- doesn’t know what to do. There has to be something to do!

They clench the Microphone tightly, its cord stretching and twisting off into somewhere…

And _**scream.**_

It’s not a sound that should be reasonably able to come from human vocal cords. It’s the whine of a microphone set down inopportunely, the snarl of furious static and the crackle of stray noise, the wail of a bluescreening dial-up. It’s louder than anything they’ve ever heard and it just keeps going, even when they’re no longer trying to hold that high-pitched note.

Every audio device in Los Angeli _shrieks_ with feedback. The chaotic tear in the sky shines with light and lightning and blots out the solar eclipse in a crackle of magenta. The ump stops in their tracks, staggers backwards as the sound gets louder and louder and louder. Wyatt-- who even cares which one?-- can’t tell for sure, but it almost looks like fear in their white-hot eyes as they retreat.

The room is crackling with energy, flickering in the erratic lighting. Wyatt-- one of them-- is pretty sure they swapped places in the group huddle with Wyatt-- another one.

Once the ump is well and truly gone from the room, Wyatt-- the one with the loud shriek of feedback still pouring out of them-- can finally stop making that noise. They struggle to catch their breath. It still echoes around the stadium, around Los Angeli, faintly.

What do they… do now? They can probably deal with this eventually. Weirder things have happened (have weirder things happened? They’re honestly not sure about that. Okay, several things have happened that when added together would probably be equally weird to this. Probably). They don’t want to die for this, but… as weird as wrapping their head around that it definitely hasn’t always been like this is, they had friends, other teammates, and they kind of don’t want to accidentally cause their friends to permanently cease to exist.

“Are-- are you guys still there?” Wyatt-- one of them, could be any of them, could be all of them, now that they’re thinking about it it’s kind of worrying how impossible it is to tell-- asks aloud. Aloud seems better than silently.

No one speaks up, but like, that’s not surprising. Wyatt-- _gods_ they hope it’s not just them-- is like, pretty sure that maybe some of the stuff in their brain(s?) has continuity of consciousness with the other Tacos, but… they don’t _know._ Maybe the vague feeling that, that the rest of the Tacos haven’t ceased to exist, is just them hoping really hard that that’s the case and overanalyzing any feelings that _might_ be indicative of the continued existence of the rest of the… the rest of the Tacos.

They’re thinking about this too much and the sheer adrenaline of running for their life(ves?) is starting to wear off and oh no this is way too much this is too much.

This is too much.

Okay, no. Come on. “Focus,” says Wyatt-- who cares which one-- THEY care oh what if the rest of them are just gone no no _focus._ There has to be a… there has to be something. Find something to focus on that’s not ‘trying to pinpoint whether their friends still exist by chasing after every thought is that one indicative of something or are they just gone’-- no. Focus, Wyatt. Wyatts?

What if… what if they asked questions that only their friends would know the answers to? Again, asking aloud. “What’s, uh…” Okay, they’re blanking hard. “Uh… um… blood type.”

Wow, that’s a terrible question. Still, they know the answer to it. It’s Love- it’s O No- it’s Psychic- O- Grass- AA- Acidic… okay! That’s either a good sign or not a good sign!

Uh… they’re pretty sure they know which Wyatt has which blood type. Wyatt-- the one with Grass blood-- is the one with Grass blood, and Wyatt-- the one with AA blood-- wait, this is completely useless. They’re pretty sure Wyatt-- the one looking to the right at the moment relative to Wyatt-- another one-- and to the left relative to some of the others-- is the one with Acidic blood, though. And that more than one Wyatt has Love blood and more than one Wyatt has O No blood.

Okay, um, what’s another question, um… “Coffee… coffee style?”

Well, theirs is Cold Brew- is Espresso- is an americano- isn’t a coffee ‘style’ per se- is cream and sugar- about twenty sugar cubes- tall latte- basically just a glass of soy milk- flat white- light and sweet… this might be also good news, maybe. Wyatt-- the one with AA blood-- likes their coffee light and sweet. Wyatt-- the one who likes cold brew coffee-- has Love blood.

Do they remember how their friends liked their coffee? Yeah, Wyatt-- the one who was their friend before they joined the league-- doesn’t care how they have their coffee… wait, this is maybe not good news.

Their friend from before the league, Wyatt-- the one who is their friend from before the league. No. Come on! Their actual(?) name is right on the tip of their brain, they _know_ what it is, but they can’t _think_ the words, it’s just not working, are their friends gone does this mean their friends are gone _why isn’t it working?_

Focus. Find something to focus on that’s not-- _Wyatt Mason._ That’s not the name of that one, either. _Wyatt_ \-- focus! What’s another question? Whatever is happening with their friends, whatever might be lost… at least they still have blood? And coffee preferences? That… that has to count for something.

Ooh! They’ve come up with another question, and it’s maybe a good one? _What do they make sure to do before every game_ , that’s the sort of question that you would ask to confirm someone’s identity or to find out if they’re still there. 

They don’t have time to ask it aloud before they already know all the answers. Gaming, knitting, playing pranks, feeding the bugs, spinning, hydrating, daydreaming, gambling, meditation, coloring, questioning everything, eating a bird, eating grass… and feeling bad about not getting into kickball.

Wyatt-- the one who feels bad about not getting into kickball-- the one still holding the Microphone?-- is pretty sure they’re going to have something new to feel bad about before games, at this rate.

Wyatt-- the one who doesn’t care how they have their coffee-- the one whose blood type is Love-- the one who eats a handful of grass before every game… dang, is that what they were doing before games? Wyatt-- the one who was their friend-- the one who still holds the Microphone in shaky hands-- stifles a half-laugh that might be coming out of one of the other Wyatts. _Hey,_ that’s unfair of them, it is a perfectly valid pregame ritual as a way to get to know the stadium and a show of dominance! (The feeling is half-indignant and half-joking.)

...hold on a second. That’s promising. That’s promising! That feels like what Wyatt-- what W-- screw it! That feels like what their friend would have said in that situation. Or are they overanalyzing it?

Still, it seems like their friends are still in there. Somewhere. Probably. They didn’t delete anyone from existence! They’re not sure if they can get used to this because it might be better to have their friends definitely back, but at least things should b--

“Calibration complete,” a calm, mechanical voice says from… somewhere. Maybe the loudspeakers. Maybe inside Wyatt’s head(s?). “Adjusting harmonics.”

“H-huh?” Wyatt-- yeah-- says nervously.

The voice continues. It sounds like an automated answering machine voiced by a confused college student. “Localizing…” There’s a long moment of silence. “Breadwinner, Baldwin. Frequency: four three point one zero one.”

Wyatt-- one of them-- Baldwin Breadwinner? Yeah, that’s right, that is-- was-- their-- her?-- name-- starts to jitter slightly. It’s a weird effect. It’s not entirely pleasant to experience.

There is… probably a few minutes… of just trying to process that, and then the voice starts up again. “Localizing: Simmons, Moses. Frequency: one four point two seven one.” Another Wyatt-- Moses Simmons?-- also starts vibrating.

There’s another moment, a faint sound like the click of something sliding into place, and Wy-- Baldwin disappears from the field. Wyatt-- at least two of them-- startle in alarm.

Uh. That’s not good. Or is it? Wyatt-- all of them-- doesn’t know. Wait, hang on… if they focus, they can kind of not-quite-see Baldwin back in her house, apparently slowly regaining consciousness.

Oh. If they focus, they can kind of not-quite-see a lot of things. A LOT of things. A lot of things too many things it’s going too fast. Someone is turning dials on a display to make waveforms line up. Someone is having a right proper cuppa tea, oblivious to the waves already bouncing back and forth in their teacup. Someone is in the dark, in the flames, in the trench (the what?) and seemingly currently alone except for the massive slumbering silhouette next to them. Someone is admitting fear. Someone is resenting this and every little blasphemy.

Is _that_ what everyone is in danger of? Oh no. Oh no.

Uh… now that they’re no longer distracted by not-quite-seeing entirely too many things moving entirely too fast, they can also see that several more Wyatts-- the ones that are no longer actually Wyatts-- except for if they still are-- have popped out of being there in Al Pastor Memorial Stadium and are presumably back safe at their respective homes. Apparently-- as most recently evidenced by ~~Wyatt~~ ~~Taiga~~ Wyatt Quitter-- this happens even if only part of their name is actually back.

Hey! Even without the full name back, Wyatt-- any of them, or just the one with the Microphone?-- can actually think names now! For the most part.

“Localizing:” the voice continues. “Wheerer, Sexton. Frequency: one zero point one zero.” 

Wait. Waitwaitwait go back.

It’s a relief to know that they’re getting back the ability to think about their teammates’ names, because that’s not how it’s spelled or pronounced, hello, what? That’s not right. Why isn’t it right?

“Localizing: Dovenpart, Lee.”

_That’s_ their friend’s name! Wyatt-- the one whose blood type is Love, whose coffee style is anything, who eats a handful of grass before each game and calls it a power move, who knows the plot of Naruto off by heart, who knows what the Grand Unslam is referring to and-- oh, is that what it’s referring to? _Oh_ \-- that’s them! Except…

Except for that there is also literally a mispronunciation in that one that’s not how it’s spelled. That’s not how it’s spelled! They’re doing this wrong! They’re messing this up! This is really really really stressful!!!

Why are they messing up their friend’s name? As far as Wyatt-- the one who is currently holding the Microphone tightly and flapping their hands in distress-- can tell, this is permanent! They only get one chance to do this _why are they messing things up why are things getting messed up why isn’t everyone getting their entire names back why are there typos and mispronunciations WHY ARE THERE MISPRONUNCIATIONS_

Why are things going wrong now…?

Wyatt-- the one holding the Microphone-- is pulled out of their distress by a faint fuzzy feeling in their gut. “Localizing: Mason, Wyatt.”

They’re the only one still in Al Pastor Memorial Stadium.

“Frequency…”

The voice makes a chugging, choking whirring sound.

“Frequency: Not a Number.”

Wyatt-- Wyatt?-- knows what this is supposed to feel like; they’ve felt it thirteen times by now. Or at least, they thought they knew what this is supposed to feel like. A bit fuzzy, a bit tingly, and then they (should!) suddenly flash out of Al Pastor Memorial Stadium and back home.

It doesn’t feel like that.

It feels like being torn apart, atom by atom, piece by piece. Like whatever tingly sense is scanning them is rifling through their entire body for something that is not there, or trying to subtract everything that is. Multiplying infinity by zero. Dividing zero by zero. Adding infinity to negative infinity.

The air screams with Feedback again. Wyatt-- are they still--’s grip on the Microphone is death-tight, and they can’t quite see the vicious magenta light pouring out of it but they’re somehow very sure it’s there.

Magenta is a weird colour. It’s literally just the opposite of green, for when things that would be green should not be green. Oh, it’s probably not a good sign that their brain is going on this weird tangent when they’re being literally ripped apart.

Wyatt collapses inward.

Not into… whatever of _them_ is left in the center of the Al Pastor Memorial Stadium field, but into the Microphone. The Microphone lifts up out of what might qualify as a hand, its cord trailing magenta behind it.

An alarm buzzes: “FEEDBACK DETECTED!” There’s an awkward moment with a faint sound of clamouring, as though someone is scrambling to get a response machine to work, and then: “Localization Status: Good Enough.”

“Shutting down.”

The Microphone flickers out of sight of Al Pastor Memorial Stadium and disappears. The individual still in the centre of the field collapses forward and faceplants on the ground. 

Somewhere that they don’t yet know, Wyatt Mason blacks out.


End file.
